


Serenade

by FrostonMaples



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 13:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1607003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostonMaples/pseuds/FrostonMaples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fury remembers someone else who suffered a loss due to Loki's actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the Avengers, the latest sandbox I'm playing in belongs to Marvel/Disney. Really. If you think otherwise, I'm sure I have some swampland for sale somewhere that would be a great deal!
> 
> This was originally written and posted on FFN shortly after the Avengers movie, before Iron Man 3, the rest of the sequels and Agents of SHIELD, and definitely before it was announced that Agent Coulson survived. I was tempted to at least change the name of the cellist to be consistent with recent revelations, but have decided to leave the fic in all its flawed 'glory'.
> 
> Many thanks to the great bunch at the Beta Branch. Any mistakes are solely mine.

XXXXXXXXXXX

 

She stayed behind after rehearsal. Extra practice was needed - her distraction had led to a performance she considered less than acceptable. She had standards to maintain. Her mind wandered as the cello sang Saint-Saens' _The Swan_ \- the rich tones reminded her of a past concert, with warm hazel eyes watching...

Caught up in memory, she didn't realize for several minutes that her fingers had shifted to another melody, the mournful strains of the short _Eagle's Serenade_ better reflecting her melancholy. Professionally, the move to Portland had made sense - there weren't very many opportunities to be first chair cellists - but personally, she found herself thinking more and more of New York, and what - _who -_ she had left behind. 

New York. The music slowed as memory called up the images on the news. Invading aliens, superheroes - she was glad to be on the opposite side of the country, but she was worried. He had never told her very much about his job, beyond the fact that he worked for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. She had a foreboding feeling that that would entail being around when an alien invasion threatened New York...

He hadn't returned her call.

She suddenly realized she had strayed from the _The Swan_. _Deep breath - clear the mind_ \- She started again, determined to have at least one successful run-through of her part of the piece before leaving. Her eyes closed in concentration, she didn't notice movement in the shadows.

 _legato...tiny bit more dolce...and vibrato..._ She smiled in satisfaction as the notes finally matched her expectations.

She opened her eyes - and jumped with a small shriek, her bow falling to the ground. She was used to being oblivious while concentrating on her music, but this was the first time she had someone get so close while unaware.

Her first impression was towering height - not just physically, but in attitude. Bald, black, with an eyepatch and long leather coat, she found herself totally intimidated, while an irreverent voice in the back of her mind whispered, 'screw Johnny Depp, this guy would be a kickass pirate king'. He seemed puzzlingly familiar - she was sure she had never seen him before, but there was something...

"Louisa Sinclair?" His voice boomed in the acoustics of the hall. For all that it resonated with authority, it seemed toned down, almost gentle.

"Yes," she confirmed. She looked around, noting shadowy figures at each entrance ( _securing the room_ , his voice whispered, from a memory of New York). "Who are you?" Dread started to stir in her chest.

"My name is Nick Fury. I am the director of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division." For all that he was intimidating - downright frightening - his face was full of compassion. She felt her mouth go dry, and suddenly realized that her hand on the neck of the cello was shaking. "I need to speak to you about Phil Coulson..."

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Thank-you once again for inviting me here, Director Fury."

"It's the least we could do, Ms. Sinclair." Nick Fury nodded gravely as he shook her hand. "I apologize for the absences of some of our people. There was something that came up at the last minute..."

"No need to apologize." She smiled wanly. "There are many things more important than a memorial service. Perhaps I will be able to meet them some other time." Truthfully, she had only noticed the gap in attendance during the actual service itself. There had been two rows empty except for three women and an older man - otherwise, the chapel had overflowed with SHIELD personnel, leaving her slightly overwhelmed with strange faces.

Fury turned and gestured a blond agent forward. "Agent Quartermain will stay with you and drive you wherever you need to go. He has the information, tickets and keys for your travel arrangements and hotel. Please let him know if there's anything you need."

"Thank-you. I think I will get going." she said. She shook his and Maria Hill's hands, said her farewells to Ms. Potts, Ms. Lewis, Dr. Foster and Dr. Selvig, and turned to Agent Quartermain. "Before we go to the hotel, I have a stop I would like to make."

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

"Are you sure you don't want to go get a coffee or something?"

"I'll be fine, Ms. Sinclair," Agent Quartermain reassured her. "I'll wait for you at the entrance. If you want to leave sooner, call me, otherwise I'll be back here in an hour." He carefully made sure the chair was stable in the grass, then walked back to the car and slowly drove away.

The grass hadn't grown over the grave during the month since the funeral proper, and workers hadn't laid sod over the disturbed earth. It seemed forlorn, especially since the stone hadn't been installed yet, but the beauty of the grounds helped. She set her case on the grass and carefully pulled out her cello. Settling onto the chair, she tightened her bow and checked the tuning - words couldn't describe the importance of this performance to her.

The tuning was finally to her satisfaction, and her fingers warmed up. Without further ado, she launched into the _Bach Cello suite n.6_ , a piece she had still been working on while in New York, but had since more or less learned - it would be a lifetime before she truly mastered it, but Phil had never heard her perform the whole thing.

 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

The last strains of the suite faded into the air, without even birdsong to disturb the reverberation. She bowed her head over the cello, remembering when he had laughed at her swearing at the courante of the suite (the only time he had interrupted her at work), asking for her to repeat the suite's gavottes despite her protests of lack of polish, his fingers tapping with the beat...

The silence was letting her think too much. She stretched her hands and flexed her wrists, trying to loosen the tension - another memory, this time of hands gently massaging tight shoulder muscles...

A deep breath, ignoring the prickling in her eyes, before positioning the bow over the strings again. Her hands were shaking - not acceptable. Head bowed again, eyes shut, she sat silently, summoning calm. A couple of false starts produced sour notes, making her wince. With another deep breath, she forcibly cleared her mind and tried to fill it with the peace of the cemetery. Once again, she set the bow to string.

_The Swan_ was actually a duet with either a harp or piano, but he had loved listening to her practice the piece, either with her accompanist or solo. Today, it sounded forlorn and off-balance without the piano, but the melody was still intact. Only a few bars had been played when she heard a clanking sound. She tried to tune it out, but then it repeated again, and again. With some irritation she opened her eyes...to see the Avengers.

They had obviously just returned from a mission. They were disheveled and grimy, streaked with black soot, blue slime liberally splattered all over and the occasional bandage peeking out from under a uniform.

The Iron Man armor was scraped and dented, all shine dulled and dirty. Stark had removed his helmet - under sweat and black smudges, his face was sombre, his eyes full of emotion. _("I've never met anyone so determined to hide a good heart behind an asshole exterior." Phil shook his head in amused exasperation.)_

Her heart tripped when she realized who the young-faced man was - even with the cowl pushed back off his face, the uniform was unmistakable. She saw a glimmer of tears in his eyes, leaving her with a bittersweet taste. It looked like Phil had achieved his lifelong dream of meeting his hero - had he had the chance to know him? _(When she asked why the Captain was his hero, he replied, "Primary colors are a relief when you work in shades of gray.")_

Even without seeing the hammer, she would have identified the tall blond man as Thor. Despite the grime, his hair and general complexion seemed to cast a golden aura - his sorrowful, guilty expression was very much rainshowers blocking the sun. _(At the time, she had thought it to be an odd non-sequitur as they watched a thunderstorm during a date. "A thunder god is never truly gone as long as there are still storms.")_

The man standing beside Stark puzzled her for a few minutes. Unlike the others, his clothes were clean, if somewhat rumpled and ill-fitting. His composure was more politely respectful than sad, leading her to believe that, of all of them, he hadn't known Phil personally. Oddly enough, it was his calm, serene expression that helped her music-addled brain in the process of elimination. This had to be Dr. Banner, alter-ego to the Hulk. _("Never underestimate the danger of a mistake," he had told her once. "I know of an incredibly intelligent man who made one stupid mistake, and had that mistake destroy his career, his life and his future.")_

The two that drew her attention the most were standing together, slightly apart from the others. From the blazing red hair, she deduced that the woman was Natasha and therefore the man with her had to be Clint - Phil's proteges, the ones he had known the longest and best of the group before her - longtime friends. Clint was absolutely rigid, his hands clenched so tightly that the knuckles showed white, his face a carefully expressionless mask. As she watched, Natasha, her own face equally bleak, hesitantly put an arm around his shoulders; obviously a correct thing to do, to judge by his slight relaxing and lean into her side. His arm went around her waist, while his other hand clasped her hand as she raised it to his heart - somehow, the gesture seemed true, rather than hopelessly melodramatic. Their closeness looked right, but memory said it was wrong ( _"There's no fraternization in the organization," Phil had said, when she asked why he found her instead of a fellow agent. A brief, guilty look crossed his face. "It's been necessary for me to take measures to discourage relationships between agents. I cannot be an exception," - he looked at her with a smile - "and I think I have done so much better for that."_ ). Looking at them now, she could only believe that Phil would have made an exception to following policy.   
 ****

As she watched, the rest of the group drew closer around the pair - the captain rested his hand on Natasha's shoulder and nodded encouragingly, the rest quietly murmured what could only be support as the pair looked to the rest of the group. 

It felt right to have them there. Her eyes closed once again to concentrate on the melody, letting it soar through the peace of the cemetery. 

 


End file.
